"'There is rest for the weary.'"
"Hallo!" burst in a rude boy of some fifteen years, opening the door from the entry,—"who's puttin' my room to rights?"
A very gentle voice said, "I've done it, Barry."
"What have you done with that pine log?"
"Here it is,—in the corner behind the bureau."
"Don't you touch it, now, to take it for your fire,—mind, Nettie! Where's my kite?"
"You won't have time to fly it now, Barry; supper will be ready in two minutes."
"What have you got?"
"The same kind we had last night."
"I don't care for supper." Barry was getting the tail of his kite together.